


Rud éigin

by Space_Interrobang



Category: The Last Kingdom (TV), The Warrior Chronicles | The Saxon Stories - Bernard Cornwell
Genre: Asexual Character, Character Study, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Minor Original Character(s), Past Abuse, Period Typical Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:40:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24279736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Space_Interrobang/pseuds/Space_Interrobang
Summary: It is not often one gets an opportunity to choose their own fate. It rushes and bends like a river, and when two people shirk the smoother course, will they find a bond in the rapid, brutal journeys they took down the stream? Something had called to them. And something was waiting.Or: A character study in what Finan might do if he met another Irish person and realized he may have to confront his past.
Relationships: Finan (The Last Kingdom)/Original Character(s), Finan (The Last Kingdom)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 38
Kudos: 69





	1. Something

**Author's Note:**

> Because Finan got some tasty character development in season 4, and I felt like my eyes were opened after reading the backstory on why he was exiled from Ireland, so here's his character getting more attention. It's what he deserves. Plus, the show left a whole 3 year gap in the canon in season 2. What else did you expect?

Ten men dead, and a lone warrior stood amongst them; a few spooked, kicking horses his only fighting companions. The bandits thought it would be an easy scrap, but the Irish warrior ordered to stay to keep the peace while the Lord was away securing supplies had been fast and clever. That was the story, and the excuse that was used to throw a feast. That, and good timing.

Uhtred had been Lord of Coccham not even two cycles of the moon and already things were better. Trade was open, walls were fortified, a great hall built, thieves dealt with, and raiders and thugs had just learned the people living there were no longer prey. Though a portion of the population disdained having a "heathen" rule over them, they were safe and fed, and made no trouble of it. Especially since Uhtred recently granted permission for a church.

There were many things to celebrate, and the band of musicians traveling through town gave him the push to act on the good fortune and peace. There were five of them; three women and two men. They appeared in the alehouse at night, and kept to their camp outside the walls in the day.

Uhtred had spoken with their leader once briefly upon their arrival when giving them permission to stay for a time. She was often found playing a lyre and singing to the patrons of the alehouse in the afternoon. Some nights others from her troupe would join, but most would see her alone and content with pretty stories told through song. It had helped the transition of him as Lord of Coccham, as much as he did not want to admit it. The music brought cheer, and placated people, pulling them to gather and drink together while he dealt with other issues. So when he asked them to perform at a feast and the leader was all too glad to accept, it eased some of his worry.

In truth, the woman had steered their group toward Coccham after hearing the word that King Alfred had made "The Daneslayer" an ealdorman in Wessex. She was acquainted with the many stories surrounding him, and wished to know better which parts were true so she could sing them herself in good conscious. Perhaps pen a few herself. The town was unremarkable in itself, but the people were diverse and there was peace within its borders, and that made it better than most. Her traveling companions were content to stay for a time.

"So, let us agree on a price," the Lord had said. He sat at the head of the table in the new hall, and she the next seat over. He was taking his morning meal. The Lady Gisela was not around, though she suspected his wife was not far. A few servants bustled in the back kitchen area, preparing plates for others; the household guards most likely.

"There is none, Lord," the woman answered.

This gave Uhtred pause. He set down the bread that he had been biting off of and wiped the crumbs from his tunic, jostling the pendant that hung around his neck; Thor's hammer. His brows came together, leaning back in his chair. There was a few moments where they simply sat, waiting for him to finish chewing the food in his mouth.

His eyes studied the woman, but her placid expression gave away no dubious intent or motive. The signs of tiredness were around her eyes, however, and within. It could have been from travel and late nights performing, but something about the green color pawed at the back of his mind, and his instincts had not led him astray before. At least, not often. This was a woman with secrets, but only time would tell if they would bring unfavorable winds or not. As was his nature, he wanted to give her a chance.

"You would be performing work no one else can provide. I would pay a smith to forge a weapon; so I would pay your troupe."

"We are simple travelers Lord," she replied with a kind smile. "We have already been receiving payment from patrons at the alehouse, and we do not wish to draw further attention on the road by carrying heavy purses."

"A lesson learned from experience?"

She dipped her head to confirm his question.

The skeptical look diminished, but did not fade. "Perhaps a different payment then. You will be needing food, will you not?"

"Yes Lord."

"Then I will arrange rations to be brought to you before you leave Coccham. Is this acceptable?"

Surprise flickered across her face, but vanished just as quick. "That is...very generous."

"We would not have the means of such generosity if it were not for Finan. He fought bravely while I was away. Perhaps you should thank him for your full bellies tomorrow night."

"Thank you Lord."

He bowed his head and leaned his forearms on the edge of the table. "Then it is agreed." Fingers plucked up an apple from his plate. "Before you go, you will tell me where you're from?" It was phrased as a question, but his inflection made it out to be more of a demand.

"Ireland," the woman answered, shifting in her seat.

"Your accent is not as strong. Did you grow up there?"

"Says the Saxon with a Danish accent," she scoffed. It was a playful response, not deriding, and the corner of Uhtred's mouth lifted.

"Point taken. And the rest of your company?"

"Mostly Northumbria. Except the big guy. He's from Francia, but he doesn't speak."

"A band of misfits?" he guessed.

"I suppose that's a word for it."

"My men speak well of you even if most of their words are of how you keep to yourself. Why is it that you camp outside the walls? There are rooms for visitors at the alehouse."

She glanced away, a pain rising to the surface and being tamped back down. "Another lesson, Lord."

At that, the pieces fit together better. Outcasts, and those people have deemed not right for society. Each would have their tragedy; their oddity. Uhtred had known few of such folk to thrive. Most would scorn having them near for any lingering amount of time, thinking the strangeness could spread like a sickness. Staying outside the walls was a safety precaution, and this woman was acting as their voice and protector. As a man who had often found himself without a place he belonged, Uhtred felt his heart soften. Perhaps they could find some kindness in Coccham. At the very least, he could offer it.

"If anyone gives your people trouble you may come to me. It is good that you are here, I think."

Her smile returned slowly. "Then we agree on two accounts Lord."

With a grin and a gesture, the woman was dismissed, and she left the hall to tell her companions the good news.


	2. Something Familiar

The next afternoon people buzzed about, trying to finish their chores to be able to join the feast later that night. Fresh bread was made, pigs churned over fires, fruits and vegetables plated, barrels rolled into the hall. It was a welcome sight to the singer. Events like these brought people together, bonded them, and the air would be electric; unpredictable. The promise of excitement drew her, and consequently her troupe, to the heart of it.

Tables had been brought inside the new hall and pushed close to the walls to create space around the fire pit that marked the center of the building. The stone underfoot was solid, and women tittered amongst themselves as they covered the tabletops with plates and mugs and food.

The musicians set up beside the throne near the back. The area was raised on a platform to have it stand out, and it was the perfect stage for the group. The big guy had his large drum in the back. Next to him was the reedstalk Wilfred with a flute tucked in his belt and a smaller drum held in his hand, nestled against his forearm with a stick in the other hand ready to flutter against the hide. The two beating hearts of their group. In front of them was Avon. She added texture to the beat of the music with a small wood and metal instrument that rattled when the leader wasn't singing; otherwise she took up the lyre. Finally, the next most likely to be seen in the alehouse, Edda. She sat beside the leader with a crwth in her lap and a smile for anyone passing.

They ate as people filtered in the doors which would leave themselves free to play on through the night, with the exception of drinks naturally. Guards, servants, bakers, farmers; it appeared half of Coccham had come, and the Lord looked all the happier for it. The singer had donned her best apparel. The dress had no holes, and some extra of the pale blue material was gathered at the waist so it swayed with every movement. Two braids pulled at her temples and were secured with a leather strip at the back. The brown tresses were too long to keep out of her face completely while dancing, but it would help.

The first hours of the night were filled with eating and drinking, and singing that would not disturb conversation. The musicians played, but the people needed to soak in the merriment and ale for a while before any truly exciting escapades could take place. And so the leader sat, restless to get up and move, and everyone else with her. Waiting for the right moment to fully take advantage of the good spirits to loosen limbs and consciences.

The Lord Uhtred caught her eyes as she strummed steadily to a wordless dance tune. He shared a secretive smile with his wife beside him as he stood from his place at the head of the table. Then he went up the few steps to her side. The smile took on a note of mischief as he leaned down to talk in her ear.

"My wife thinks your troupe know songs from your homeland?"

The woman nodded.

"That man over there, telling stories," he jerked his chin down the line of people feasting. There was a man gesturing wildly with a carrot like it was a dagger. His hair was cut near his scalp, with a beard that barely covered the skin underneath. She couldn't get a great look at his face with all the moving bodies between them, but he appeared to be part of the guard; a leather carapace vested over his tunic. There was linen tied as a bandage around one of his upper arms; a mark of victory from the raid. His joyful demeanor was infecting the group around who listened, though it could have been that the celebration in general accomplished that; making their smiles come easier.

"That is Finan. I wish to honor his victory and loyalty. Sing a few songs from your home."

"As you wish, Lord." The woman leaned over to the string player to inform them as Uhtred retreated from her side.

Metal clattered to wood rhythmically five times. The sound rattled, clashing with the music. Uhtred held a plate in the air after having slammed the edge of it to the table. It was to get the hall's attention. The music petered out; drums still, fingers no longer bowing or plucking. Conversation died until there was only a few unintelligible murmurs.

The Lord of the hall swung the platter to the side, using it to point at the musicians, and belted out, "the singer has prepared a special performance!"

The crowd erupted into cheers, cups raising and sloshing ale on clothes and tables. The singer put on her most charming smile, gave her lyre to Avon, and stood with a flourish to address the room. All eyes went to her as she stood in front of the throne.

"I've heard word I'm not the only Irish bastard in these halls!"

The people in armor and the group that sat around Finan cheered and encouraged, nudging him. He bobbed between shoves and stared at her with wide eyes.

"So I think it's time ya drunken shites experienced a bit of what it's like at a Gaelic feast! We will rattle the walls in uproarious celebration of Coccham's great fortune and it will carry on the winds across every sea!"

Louder cheers and screams. A good portion stamped their feet and banged empty mugs to generate more noise. The man it was for was still, disbelieving.

The singer turned to her troupe and quickly muttered two song names. They nodded, and the big guy set his mallets aside in favor of his hands. The woman raised one hand above her head. The other bunched her skirt, lifting it partially to emphasize the loud stomp of her foot on the floor. With the signal clearly stated, the drummer began tapping out a quick, syncopated rhythm. She waited for two repetitions of the pattern then started singing.

The song was light and bouncy, and she tapped her foot in time; filling with the urge to move. It was a song meant for it. The lyrics talked about a woman who traveled from town to town singing and dancing in alehouses, and encouraging everyone around to dance with her; wishing the night would extend longer for the bliss of celebration to continue. It was extremely apt.

Her eyes cut to Finan. He was struck dumb, staring at her like she was the only spot of land on a vast ocean. His carotene weapon lay forgotten on his plate. And her heart soared. How long had it been since he heard the language from his home? Or even met another Irish person?

Others took to the open space between both tables, unknowingly fulfilling the wishes of the song's writer. Bodies moved, and hopped, and some got their wives to join them. The woman was glad to bring such happiness to others, but in that moment, she sang for Finan. The Irish Gaelic flowered off her tongue, and it was to him; urging him to revel in the merry-making. A plea only they could understand.

When the woman finished the first verse the crwth joined the drummer, bow gliding over strings in a merry tune. It mimicked the notes she had sung, and she let her body be taken with it. Uhtred _had_ said 'performance'.

She spun, hair and hem twirling with her, then jumped. It wasn't high, but she kept her steps light. Her toe tapped the wood of the platform, then down, and her other foot followed. Then another hop, landing on the balls of her feet, then the heels; just out of sync with one another. Her boots didn't click like heels would, but it had its intended effect.

Her gaze snapped back to Finan and found him smiling. His eyes shined, and he shook with bittersweet laughter. His legs slowly straightened, standing from the bench as he watched her dance.

Then the next verse had her restrained to toe-tapping; unable to sing and dance simultaneously. It didn't stop her from gesturing with her arms however, and she knew that the enthusiasm of the performers often set how much of the same feeling bled into the audience. It was why their troupe was successful; she was passionate in every song and dance, and it made whoever was around enjoy it that much more.

All too quickly the third verse came and went, and the song was over. The troupe began the second song right away, and the singer's heart raced. It was a favorite of hers because of the cheer it brought. The words were the tale of a young woman who was meant for another man sneaking off to dance and talk with sailors; her spirit untameable. The bow skipped along the strings on the crwth, the drums leading everyone's feet.

The woman couldn't contain herself. As she sang the second verse she flitted down the steps to be among the others dancing. She cast smiles and swung her hips, and at the end of a particular line her voice called up. With it, she used the bench as a stepping stool to jump up on the table, startling a few of the men around. She was wild, and free, and the air in the hall ran rich with liveliness.

There were a few more lines before a musical break would happen, and she looked around, beckoning all to join the dancing. As she turned she saw Finan again. He had moved to the other side of the table among the dancing, draining the last of his ale, heel tapping in time to the beat. Closer up she was able to better see his face. There was a scar that ran from his eyebrow to his hairline by his temple, and permanent laugh lines around his eyes. Those eyes that had not left her since she spoke to the hall. They carried a weight that his easy smile tried to lift. And something about it was familiar.

There was no time to linger on those thoughts. The crwth played a jig, and she was dancing on a table, spinning and barely avoiding sticking her boot in a platter of carved meat.

When the last verse started, the woman returned to the floor, drawing the crowd around into further raucous. The last sung note hung in the air, and she reached out to Finan with a playful smile. The man carelessly set aside his cup, face lighting up as he took her hand. They twirled around one another as the jig repeated itself. His footsteps were similar to her earlier ones, light and agile for a warrior, and she was breathless with delight. Drunk on the joy around them and the company of such an interesting man; the connection she felt without sharing a word. The stories he must hold behind those fierce eyes.

The crwth player sang then, repeating the last verse. The woman joined in, less controlled in her state, and then she heard the warriors voice too. It was less singing than it was cheering, but to hear the harmonies the natural pitches in their voices created was bliss to her ears. Their shared native tongue shouted to the heavens about dancing until dawn.

He had let himself get lost in it all; uncaring of his loud, slightly unsteady celebrating. She swelled with pride and elation, and after the song ended in earnest her legs carried her instinctually back to the platform with the rest of her troupe, walking backwards. Sweat made her brow glisten, and her chest heaved, gaze hesitating, locked with the warrior's. There was fire there, in his eyes; a passion only just beginning to shine through. A promise of ravaged, feral destiny under cover of night.

She broke from his stare when she reached the platform. Uhtred's gaze was there, as was his smile. He dipped his head; a silent showing of gratitude for a job well done. And she turned to her troupe with a wicked grin.

After a moment of quiet whispers the woman returned to address the hall. Most did not mind her, but that was fine. Her message was for the Lord of the town, and Uhtred was watching with interest.

"We have a proposition for you, Lord."

He glanced at his wife and waved his hand. "Then speak it."

"We have sung for Saxon and Irish, but this is a diverse town of many peoples. We would like to respectfully perform for your wife and her heritage tonight; to solidify the bond between all your people Lord."

The lady Gisela leaned closer to her husband.

"Everyone is drunk and content tonight. Now may be my only chance to hear Danish music again without a riot."

"Mine as well," he replied before turning to the singer and raising his voice. "You honor my wife and her people, and we would be grateful."

The drums started before she could say anything. Two of her troupe stayed on the platform to bang mallets and hands on stretched hide. The other two women set aside their instruments with excited giggles and jumped down into the middle of the hall. The singer followed, and they stood in a line by the fire. The bass of the drums resonated in their chests, and they began to sing in unison.

It was a short song technically meant for a summer solstice festival, the lyrics wishing bountiful crops, fruitful land and good fortune; a fitting way to welcome the new Lord of Coccham.

There was a dance that went with it, but it was not much more than swaying hips and steady gestures with their hands. The crowd didn't pay much mind; using the time to refill their mugs and bellies. A few watched, but it was the wistful smiles from the Lord and his wife, and their hands entwined on the tabletop, that made it worth it.

Once that was over the Lord and Lady cheered, and Edda turned to the leader. "Your voice needs a break. I will play dancing tunes for a bit."

It wasn't meant as a slight. They had performed together enough to know when one of them was tiring, and the singer would need to keep her voice for the entire night; not overextend and lose it just before the height of excitement. So she thanked her friend and they returned to the platform, leaving the singer among the audience. Her friend picked the flute from Wilfred's belt, the other her lyre, they counted off with the drummers, and started up another dancing tune.

People quickly returned to the space and moved, and the singer was compelled to do the same. The drums were fast, and beat against a carnal part of her soul. The Lord and Lady of Coccham must have felt the same because they joined as the flute projected the melody. It was another Danish piece, and the singer suspected the music would stay that way for the next hour at least. Their troupe had performed and learned from many Danes--the half Dane Wilfred included--and their music had an infectious, deeply connected sound that made even the most timid hearts rattle.

Her movements were less precise for this dancing; her body swaying and moving freely. And after one particular turn she came face to face with the warrior once more. Her smile widened as he joined her. She laughed at his less graceful dancing, uncertainty shadowing his face and forming wrinkles on his forehead.

The woman reached for his forearm and pulled him closer, helping him avoid a collision with a drunken man who stumbled nearby. The crowd was thickening, nearly every man and woman joining the tangle of bodies around the hall's fire. She put her hands on his waist, and his eyes widened, darting up to hers. The singer swung her hips in a low, wide arc, urging him to mimic.

"Loosen your hips," she instructed, hands falling away. "Like with riding a horse, or a man. And do not think." With that sage advice, her hands slid up and over herself, circling and falling, and her shoulders rolled with the rest of her.

She danced until her lungs and legs burned, losing him in the heat of it all. It was a sweet, familiar ache. What drew her out of her revelrie was the dry, cracked feeling in her throat. She was in need of a drink, and air, so that is what she left to do.

Going out of the hall, she snatched up a wooden mug and walked around to the side of the building.

The contrast was stark. Outside it was dark besides the dim moon and the torches that lit the area surrounding the main hall. The air chilled her lungs and her skin; a welcome respite from the heat of so many warm bodies inside. All was still while through the doors no one was. And the sounds of laughter and talk and music was muffled by the wooden walls.

The woman was in a daze, working to catch her breath. Eventually she found the grouping of barrels she was searching for and dunked her mug inside. She eagerly put it to her lips and the water aided in cooling her. The barrel was full as the people favored the ale inside, and so she indulged, drinking her fill and splashing her face. As she dried herself, refreshed, a voice spoke.

"My lady, you move like none other I've ever seen."

"I am a free spirit not meant for sedentary life, and not a lady," she drolled, the response automatic. The woman looked up then, slicking the hairs that had come loose around her forehead back into place, and came out of her haze as she realized who had spoken. A smile came to her lips. "You are the Irishman I danced with inside. Your Lord speaks fondly of you, and how you protected his land. But you have the look of travel and adventure about you, and it brings me to wondering thoughts."

One of his brows arched, eyes gleaming with diablerie. "You've wondered, have ya?"

He clasped his own wrist with the opposite hand, shifting weight to favor one foot. It brought him ever so closer, and she felt warmth rise from her chest to flame her cheeks. Out there, away from everyone else, he was steadier. It was entirely unfair when she knew he had been well into his cups, and the awareness that they were alone only prevented her heartbeat from slowing.

"I must return to my troupe now that I have had my water, but will you grant me more of your time later so that I may explore this...curiosity further?"

"If you want to hear tales, I suggest drinks at the alehouse. Otherwise there are a few spots we would find privacy, but folks 'round here don't like you callin' out anyone's name besides God's."

The woman laughed. He was bold with his words. It excited her, and suddenly it was more of a struggle to keep up her bravado. "Why do I fear as though I just invited trouble into my bed?"

"You cannot have adventure without trouble," he smirked, and she echoed it.

"Then I suppose I desire both."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, an opportunity to utilize my knowledge of music history...that immidately gets overturned by my desire for dancing music. Ye old 9th century bards performed epic poems and ballads if not religious stuff, and mostly modal, so the songs described here are a few centuries off. But fun feasting music was too good to pass up.


	3. Some Conversation

In the morning things were slow, stuttering to start. Some folk had retired sensibly. Most, did not. It was the way of things, and when the singer woke sprawled by the large drum with an ache down her spine she stretched and smiled at the ceiling. A few people mumbled nearby. Then a sharp gasp and a groan.

"Come on, wake up," an unfamiliar voice spoke.

Time to leave.

The woman sat up. Around her men were being forced awake to vacate the hall. The mess would take the better part of a day to clean. Food and ale had been spilled, and the morning suffering would be a burden for those who overindulged.

To her left Edda held the big guy in her arms, and Wilfred sat slumped against the wall with Avon on his shoulder. It was a fight to get them all up and aware, but it always had been after nights of feasting and dancing. Exhaustion wracked their bones. The leader was the only one to not have ale. She was quicker to recover, dragging them out with their instruments slung over their shoulders.

The big guy yawned as they walked the path to the gates.

"I know," Edda sighed. "We can sleep through the day at camp."

His eyes turned to her, and he offered a soft smile. She returned it, her free hand rubbing soothingly on his arm before addressing their leader.

"Did the Lord seem like he'd let us stay a bit longer?"

"Gods I hope so," Wilfred grumbled. His feet dragged in the dirt. "The inside of my head feels like it's about to be on the outside. I can't see straight."

"Lord Uthred seems kind, yes," the singer confirmed. "How many days do you need?"

"There's been no trouble," Edda answered. "I should like to stay a week."

"To get over a night of ale?" Avon scoffed.

The crwth player glared, but there was no heat behind it. "Some of us are not chaste and would like privacy."

"Some of us would like quiet," Wilfred added, the heel of his palm rubbing rough circles against his temple.

"Besides," Edda continued. "The Lord offered us help if trouble comes from staying at the alehouse. I would enjoy sleeping in a real bed before breaking my boney ass on horseback again."

"Either way you'll be sore between the legs."

The group passed through the gates and turned right, walking upriver to their camp. There was a small wood past the main pathways that they had set up in to be out of the way of the field workers and cattle ranchers. The two guards standing watch outside the gate were squinting against the sun. The singer smiled and greeted them. A bit of the sourness left their faces as they acknowledged the musicians.

"A week it is," the leader granted. "But please, no outbursts at the alehouse."

Edda smiled ruefully and did a poor bow. "I shall endeavor to be on my best behavior."

"Well I'm staying at camp with Wilfred," Avon announced. The man in question scrunched his eyebrows together.

"What makes you think I would give up a bed for you?"

Avon fluttered her eyelashes at him with a sickly sweet grin. "Because I'm prettier than the boys here?"

He snorted. "They are too pretty. I miss Lunden."

"So you'll stay?" Her voice shook slightly.

"I swore not to leave you unprotected."

"That could just mean you'll drag me into the alehouse with you."

"I will stay at camp to be cold and damp with you," he affirmed with a smirk. Satisfied, Avon nodded and went quiet again.

"What about you?" Edda asked the singer. "It would keep you from having to walk back to camp so late."

"She will have the offer of a different bed by nightfall," Wilfred teased with a waggle of his eyebrows.

"You're runnin' at the mouth," Edda jeered. "She's as chaste as old Mother Mary over here."

"I know what it is to watch after someone you want but cannot have," Wilfred said, then shrugged. "That warrior with the injured arm will try to hump her."

The edge of the leader's mouth lifted, glancing over her shoulder at the man. "Then you impose yourself too much into the situation. He is bold with his words, but will simper like a pup when called to act on anything."

"And how do you know for certain?"

"Don't make me answer that in front of Avon. She's uncomfortable enough as it is with all this talk of humpin'."

"It's..." the small woman's denial died quickly, and she released a tense breath. "Thank you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just me imposing my belief that Finan is all bark and no bite when it comes to women. All the other stories I've read have him as some kind of philanderer, but the show has never actually shown him doing anything besides tease Sihtric and look longingly at pretty women (which like same). And when he talks about women in regards to himself it's to "settle down". So I think he'd be a fucking mess when it comes to real emotions. The wit and sarcasm wall can't always be up. And that's not even getting into his past in Ireland fucking geez. Didn't mean to make this so long. I have a lot of feelings about his character okay.
> 
> Also, gay/asexual solidarity 0.8 A.D. with Wilfred and Avon✌🌈.


	4. Something Shared

Once all the more delicate instruments were packed away in their cases the musicians split to wander about at their leisure. The big guy and Edda went straight for the privacy of a room with a door and a bed. Wilfred laid in a tent with Avon to help her keep calm and sleep. The singer grabbed a half loaf of stale bread and set off on a walk while she ate.

Her feet followed the bank of the river back toward the small dock near the entrance to Coccham. The water whistled, murmuring nonsense. Always flowing. Always changing. Never in the same spot. Rushing for the ocean and past the horizon.

She hummed as she went along, watching and listening to the water. It was near to touching the grass; a sign the area had been getting good rain. The folks lingering by the dock ignored her as she walked around, continuing to follow the river, popping chunks of bread into her mouth. A happy haze settled on her shoulders. The peaceful disposition of the town had cloaked the singer, and she radiated warmth in turn.

"What are you grinnin' so madly for?"

It was that same voice. The woman halted her footsteps to look around. The warrior with a bandage on his arm was approaching her. He looked much the same save the sword and dagger sheathed at each hip, and the small scar on his left cheek nighttime had obscured before. The sun brought out the mirth brightening his face as he smiled.

"I was just reflecting on the joyous night," she said. He came to her side, and her eyes returned to the water. "I cannot imagine a more densely charming affair."

"I can think of a few things that would have made it better."

"Such as?" she challenged. The woman began her trek once more, and he followed, watching for some kind of expression of interest. The angle made it difficult to see her face.

"Knowin' that you wouldn't be needin' those rations a bit longer."

She nodded, understanding. "You may inform Lord Uhtred that my troupe will be leaving in a weeks' time. The prospect of a safe bed was very appealing to some of them."

"Will you be staying at the alehouse as well then?"

"I might." The woman glanced over at him. "Why? Did you want to offer me a more comfortable bed to rest in?"

That wicked smirk quirked Finan's lips again. "I do not think either of us would be restin' much if I did that."

An odd feeling riled and twisted in her gut. The grass was growing taller, bending and flattening where they stepped. It left a trail others could follow. Ahead, a barley field was almost finished being harvested. The land stretched on for ages before touching the wood that masked the horizon. Her eyes were sharp, watching; wistful and wanting. The last palmful of bread forgotten in her hold.

"Do you normally vanish so soon after comin' to town?" Finan questioned.

"Normal would be leavin' tomorrow," she replied.

"Then should I be grateful you are not bein' so cruel now?"

"Don't you feel like there's something only just out of view?" she asked instead. "Waiting around the next bend in the river; after cresting the next hill; just beyond those trees. Always just out of reach." There was a long pause, and she braced for mockery or a dismissal, but it never came. Instead his voice was curious, kind.

"Like what?"

"I don't know," she admitted. " _Something_."

"You are mad, woman."

Their footsteps slowed. She looked over at the warrior, but he was grinning.

"Is that why you travel?"

The woman opened her mouth to speak, but the words hitched in her throat. His gaze was searching, slow; sculpting the lines of her face into his memory. Her chest tightened, blinking at the man. It was a type of attention she had not experienced before, and the synapses in her brain broke down temporarily without something to connect it to. It was not leering or lecherous, and she could not find a way to react to what she could not read.

One of his eyebrows arched, wrinkling the scarred skin above it. The sun swam in his irises, shining flecks like rich, thickened amber alight with life. He stopped in the grass, and she did the same without thought. The river ran behind her, and her heart acted like it would keep pace with it.

"Can I at least get ya to speak your name?"

The woman swallowed and glanced away as she righted her thoughts. She folded her hands in front of herself and smiled. "Céilí. It's-I'm...Céilí."

Laughter erupted from the man in front of her, and her face scrunched up in confusion.

"Now I know you're full of shite," he beamed.

"It could be a name," the woman argued. Although, not strongly. Her confidence had been shaken, and her voice betrayed her by doing the same. His expression told her he didn't believe it.

"I'll not be callin' ya that."

She stood a bit straighter. "Then I'll not call you Finan."

"Do as you wish, but at least I'm not lyin' out my arse."

"Céilí is real enough for me. It's what I represent. You're not so fair. More...scruffy."

His expression calmed, resting his hands on the hilt of his sword, and his voice lowered. "I wouldn't let the new Lord hear you're hidin' yourself from whatever it is you're runnin' from. He may begin to question your presence in Coccham."

It was advice more than a warning, but the latter still sat underneath like hot embers under ash. The warrior gave her a pointed look and glanced back at the town over his shoulder. When his gaze returned it was more focused, and her heart raced for a different reason.

"I must return to inform Uhtred of your group's stay. Whatever it was that drove you from Ireland, you'll not hear me question you about it. But, if it finds you, and starts threatening the people's safety here, I will follow his orders on what to do with you." He turned to leave, but fear made the woman call out,

"It won't." One of her hands had reached out instinctually, and as he faced her it lowered again. The words were forced off her tongue; forced to admit he was right. "It won't. I swear. I left my old life in Ireland. I didn't see a purpose to bringing my old name to my new life here with me. That's it, I swear. I'm not trying to hide."

The warrior lingered a few moments, that flash of familiarity and more in his eyes again. Then he left to return to the Lord of Coccham.

She scrubbed a hand down her face, taking deep breaths. Her worries were vague, nameless things until she knew for certain what he'd do with the information, but they had sunken in her stomach like stone. Perhaps ale would lighten her burden. If there was any left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reference of why he laughs at her "name" and she retaliates by saying he's not so fair:
> 
> Céilí - A traditional Irish gathering or dance. (Yes I realize lots of women are actually called Céilí now, but that's modern usage and this is historical fiction.)
> 
> Finan - "Fair."


	5. Something Bitter

Hours passed. The woman had gone to get a proper meal and drinks at the alehouse after Finan walked away and she'd changed back into her traveling clothes. The establishment was quiet, and after no Uhtred came storming in demanding answers, she eventually resigned herself to get her lyre and pluck and strum in the corner. Relegating herself to playing and singing, and blending with the background for the next week. That plan went about as well as one would expect.

A small group of the household guard decided to have their supper at the alehouse, and once they had requested the barmaid for what they wanted one of them waved at the singer to get her attention. He appeared young, with a thin, angular face and round eyes. His dark hair was gathered at the back but otherwise shaved on either side of his head, and there was a tattoo. It stood out on his pale skin; woven ink curling and twisting like rope behind his right ear, down his neck to sit above his clavicle. The leathers and furs he wore further confirmed he was a Dane. Next to him was a bald bear of a man who looked more interested in the other three uniformly dressed guards to his left than the beanpole gesturing to the singer on his right. Across from the bear was Finan, who had the heel of his palm pressed near his temple, obscuring his face from her view; hunched with his other arm on the table.

The woman tilted her head in questioning, and he spoke. The words carried easier without the bustle of the normal crowd.

"Will you join us, Lady?"

Her eyes quickly scanned the rest of the room. There was one other couple against the far wall, but they seemed too exhausted to notice the absence of her music. It was hard for her to pass up an opportunity to hear stories since they often inspired great songs, and a Dane among the household guard of a Dane Lord was bound to have many. Plus, she consoled herself, her fingertips were becoming raw even through the callouses. It would be good to rest for a time.

After a few forced chords to end the mindless tune she had been strumming, the woman put the lyre in its case, scooped up her mug of ale from the floor, and went to them. Her head felt lighter than she anticipated, but for an entire afternoon of slowly consuming ale she considered that minor penance.

The wood bench sighed as more weight was added to it. He smiled and crossed his arms on the tabletop. Closer up she realized the bear was scewing his proportions. He was lean, but not as thin as he looked further away. And his eyes had a deeper appearance because of the coal smudged around them.

"Finan here told us your name is Céilí?"

The woman tried to glance at the Irishman, but he continued to avoid her gaze.

"It is."

"I am Sihtric."

She returned his smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"I wished to learn more about you after we watched you perform last night. I have never met someone who is not a Dane that knows our songs."

"Oh," she replied, slightly shocked. "Well I hope we did them justice, and you enjoyed them."

"It was glorious," he confirmed, eyes sparkling with joy. It warmed her heart. "I have not heard anything like it since I was a boy. How did you come to learn them? Is that smaller man with the drum a Dane too?"

"Half Dane. He sounds a lot like you actually. Perhaps you grew up in a similar area. But, to answer you, he only taught us the ones with words. The others we learned from traveling to Dane camps and towns. They have a very...carnal sound that touches your soul. I was glad we were able to share that with these people. I think it's important to learn and experience from lots of different cultures."

"You are the only person I know who thinks this way."

The woman chuckled and shrugged, taking a swig of her ale. Letting the tang and tart wash down her gullet.

That was when the barmaid returned with all of their mugs. The men thanked her, and she informed them food would follow shortly then left. Sihtric drank and set the cup back down, grip hovering by the handle.

"How did a woman such as yourself come to travel these lands between Saxon and Dane without getting killed?"

"With great difficulty," she answered. "I built a reputation among the Danes first. Once word spread that I was a harmless entertainer they allowed me into their camps more freely, and I learned more of their music, which in turn increased my reputation among them further. Going between Dane and Saxon was never an issue until our troupe got bigger and more...diverse. But experience is the best teacher, and now we have a sort of routine."

"I would imagine it is a hard life."

"That's just perspective. We are free to go where we please and be ourselves, and we rarely go hungry. I love being able to meet new people and hear their tales. I love music and the way it makes people feel; connects them. For those who cannot read it is the only way to pass down information and tradition. It ties all cultures together. And I love living life the way I choose and which makes me happy."

"You have the spirit of a Dane."

She dipped her head, showing her gratitude with a smile. "What about you, Sihtric? How did you come to guard a Saxon town?"

The boy looked down into his ale, smile dimming. "Lord Uhtred helped me free myself from my father. Now I am his oathman, as are all of us at this table."

"I'm gettin' the feeling that those are stories I should not ask about."

The barmaid came and left bowls of some kind of stew in front of each man. The singer asked for more ale. She swiped up the not quite empty tankerd with a barely contained scowl and walked to the back.

"It is the past," Sihtric declared, meeting her eyes again. "Life is in the present."

One side of her mouth lifted. "What charming wisdom from a boy."

His back straightened, voice clipped, indignant. "I am not a boy."

"Truly?"

"She's just teasin' ya," Finan cut in, lifting his head. His hand that had blocked his face fell to the bowl; holding it while the other grabbed the spoon. Then he addressed her. "Don't upset the boy."

Sihtric clenched his jaw and took a breath. "I know," he protested. "I have had my ears almost fall off listening to the shit on your tongue."

"You wouldn't know humor if it came up and took hold of your cock."

"Not that anyone would wish to hold something that small," the bear said passively before shoveling broth in his mouth.

"Unless humor is a whore's name," the singer added with a smirk. "Then silver might do the trick."

The corner of Finan's lips tightened and he muttered, "you have the bleatin' mouth of a sinner," then shoved his own full of stew.

"That I do, my scruffy friend. That I do."

Sihtric cocked an eyebrow. "Do all women talk as sweetly as you where you are from?"

"Do you like the way I talk, Dane boy, or are you worried Ireland is full of clatterin' fools like this one?" Her head jerked to the side, gesturing to Finan.

"They do not," the Irishman rebuked, words muffled through the food. He fixed the boy with a look that only served to make Sihtric grin. "And you will not answer that."

A fresh mug of ale hit the table, but the barmaid walked away before the singer could thank her.

Sihtric's eyes followed her as she disappeared to a back room. "What is that about?"

"The usual probably," the singer shrugged, gripping the handle. "Ignore it as I do and perhaps it'll go away." She drank three large swallows before meeting any of their eyes again. Sihtric poked his food with a spoon, grudgingly keeping silent, brows furrowed slightly in thought. She felt Finan's gaze beside her, but did not buckle under the weight.

There was silence for a short time as the men ate a few mouthfuls of food. She was thinking of a good way to approach asking Sihtric more about his past without opening old scars when he spoke instead.

"Did you leave a husband, Céilí?"

The woman's gaze slid up to the boy's, fingers tightening around her ale. "Um...why do you ask that of all things?"

"It is difficult for me to imagine a woman giving up everything for life on the road in foreign lands without reason, and you are the only one of your troupe without a partner. Considering your age, I thought perhaps you were running from a husband who mistreated you."

The woman blinked, and he rushed an addendum to his statement.

"You do not have to tell us, if that is what you want. It was perhaps a thoughtless question." He looked down, flustered. "I beg your forgiveness."

A grin lit up her features, and laughter came to her lips without thinking. The back of her head buzzed, slightly delirious, and her tongue felt as light as her body; the effect of drink coming stronger. "You do not need to be sorry," she assured.

Once Sihtric saw the amusement in her green eyes his shoulders relaxed, but the muscles by his jawbone worked as he swallowed.

"You wanted to know more about me and so you asked. You did not intend offense." Her accent had crept further in, the end of her sentences smiling. "I will not bite ya, Dane boy. To answer simply, I wanted more than they expected of me. Which for sheep farmers, wasn't much. But dancin' in alehouses every night brings about a certain...reputation. So I set off travelin'. I can only hope one day I'll finally find the somethin' I've been chasin' after."

There was an oddness lurking in Sihtric's eyes, and it took a moment for her to realize why.

"And no. I've never been married."

The boy nodded and sipped from his mug, the oddness gone. "There are many good warriors here. All of them good men. We can protect you if this _reputation_ ," his eyes glanced toward the back room. "Causes trouble."

"In my experience," she replied. "A good warrior is far different from a good man."

"And you've had a lot of this experience?" Finan spoke up.

Sihtric kicked his shin underneath the table, making him jolt. The boy glared. "Do you ever have an emotion that begins above your belt?"

"Hunger?"

Another jab of his boot.

Finan flinched away, jostling the table and gritting his teeth. "So help me ya bastard I will-"

"Do nothing." It was the bear. He stared calmly at Finan until his rage ebbed.

The woman felt something grip inside her chest, bitter building in the back of her throat, and looked into the mug in front of her; tilting it to watch the liquid sway and cling to the sides.

The Dane boy observed her, mind churning. She looked...lost. In place, in spirit, in thought, he could not discern, but he tried something anyway.

"Céilí, do you wish to hear about our triumph at Dunholm?"

"Hm?"

"That was Ragnar's victory," Finan dismissed, flicking droplets of broth as he gestured with his spoon.

The boy ignored him, the edges of his mouth turning up. "With a small number, Uhtred breached the fortress from a well spring on the East wall. His brother Ragnar diverted most of the men inside to the ramparts by attacking the gate, allowing us to sneak by and open them from the inside."

"And then Ragnar killed the Danish bastard and avenged his father in single combat," the Irishman sighed. The boy made a sour face as Finan drank from his mug.

The singer offered the Dane boy a smile to placate, though it did not match the ones that had come before. "You're the ones who did that?"

"You heard?" he asked excitedly.

"I did. I did not dare write anythin' without knowing which parts were true."

"You mean I could be in a song?"

She chuckled, and the corners of her eyes crinkled. Her mouth opened to answer, but she erupted into another round of giggles. He had such a good heart, and his demeanor lifted her countenance instantly; fingers pushing hair behind her ear as she wrestled with the muscles around her mouth to tamper down. "If scruffy over here doesn't mind you goin' over more of the details."

"Scruffy," Finan replied. "Will eat and keep his mouth shut."

"The only time we get peace," Sihtric japed, and the singer gave up on hiding her grin.

He talked for a long time; going over the layout of the fortress, and how many men they had to fight, and the words that were exchanged. To the best of his ability, of course. No recollection of a memory would be perfect.

The others at the table rolled their eyes and ate, sick of hearing the same story again. Even though the majority of what Sihtric said would not make it into her tale if she wrote it, with it being so detailed, she humored him. He was clearly excited to share such an important moment in his life with someone, and story-telling was her passion; she would wish the same courtesies be done for her.

It was his moment of true freedom. Sihtric had rid himself of an abusive father, helped a friend honor his family, and found purpose all in one day. He deserved his pride for his part in the events.

A few more people trickled inside the building, but eventually the woman's eyelids began to feel heavy, and she excused herself from the table to grab her lyre. Her feet weren't the most stable, but fresh air would help with that. She strolled back beside the table to say her goodbyes.

"Thank you for the story." The singer clapped a hand on the leather and fur covering Sihtric's shoulder. "You've been very kind. I have enjoyed your company, but I must rest for the night."

"Of course, Lady."

"Not a Lady," she drolled, gesturing a weak wave as she walked away. The woman didn't make it three steps before she heard,

"You are not sleepin' at the alehouse?"

Her torso turned to see Finan watching her. "With Edda and the big guy next door? I'd not sleep at all."

He looked down to mind his footing as he stood from the bench at the table and put a hand on the grip of his sword. "Then allow me to walk ya back to your camp."

Her tone fell with her gaze, and the twist in her gut moved to her throat. "I'll be okay alone."

"It is for your safety," Sihtric encouraged.

For a week the singer had been walking back alone. That was before the performance, however. Before the barmaid sneered, and the patrons of the alehouse snuck glances of her talking with the guards. When she kept to herself, general whispers were harmless, but they were turning specific it seemed. Or the guards were trying to give her another kindness, in which case it would be simpler to let it be.

"Very well," she sighed.

With a smug smile, Finan went ahead and opened the door, and walked out of the alehouse with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Sihtric and Osferth with all my heart. I know Osferth isn't in this chapter, but I just felt like saying how much I wanna hug them.


	6. Something There

It was a temperate night. The sky was illuminated by countless stars, and shadows covered most of the town like over-protective parents; sheltering those inside their homes. The path past the great hall to the gates was well-worn by the warrior, and so the woman followed his direction.

The air did not so much knock her sober as it did bring attention to exactly how much she had been drinking. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, her vision floated and she clutched the side of her head with a grimace. Shapes drifted in front of her like ships on a roiling ocean. Her feet fumbled for solid ground, and the warrior's wide gait lessened. His shape drifted closer. Then fingers skimmed her upper arm.

The woman felt her breathing freeze a moment, and she ripped her body away. The sudden shift threw her off-balance, and she stumbled before falling to the dirt, instrument case clunking beside her. She fought a hailstorm of memories behind her wide eyes, staring up at the man who had touched her, taking in shallow gulps of air. The darkness made it easy to see the flashes of cold hands, iron, and ribboned uniforms, and chills scored down her arms.

"Whoa, whoa," the Irishman soothed, smiling like she was a frightened mare. "I was only trying to help keep ya from doin' exactly that." His knees bent, squatting down to see her better, hand outstretched.

She sat, vision adjusting to become more clear, watching his features steadily sag like melting candlewax; morphing from humor to disquiet. The air strangled; odd and much too aware like a morning fog. Her fingers dug into the ground, dry grit grating over skin, and looked away.

"I'm sorry. You...surprised me."

The corners of his lips pinched together. A look of deep thought registered in his eyes, hand dropping as it gave up waiting for another to hold it.

"I shouldn't have reacted that way. Wouldn't have," she corrected. "As I said, you surprised me, and..." her gaze drifted back to his. It was even, sharp, knowing. "I should not have had any ale."

"I will not harm you, little lamb," he said in that smoky way his voice carried when low. A reassurance of security. It made her feel a fool.

"I'm not afraid." The woman released the dirt, wiping her hands on her dress.

"I just surprised you," he repeated, a wry smirk on his lips. "Perhaps I should take you back inside, since you are so easily frightened by my touch."

"Jesus, it's not you," she bemoaned.

"So you do want me to touch you?"

The singer pushed back her hair, hands lingering on the back of her neck, but her answer sounded rushed. "It's been a long time."

One of his eyebrows raised.

"Since anyone...no one's...well, things have always been easier for me if I'm the one who, well-"

"Uan beag," Finan interrupted, the Gaelic snagging a very specific, very old part of her. "Hush. The ale is makin' your mouth run before it knows what it's sayin'."

She took a deep breath, pushing it out slowly. Her mind felt less sluggish, and she moved to stand up, grabbing the instrument case in the process. "I've grown too accustomed to fighting men who wanted to rob us, or more. My apologies for behavin' in such a way."

Finan stood with her.

"I would...like it, if you were to help me back to my camp." She held out her hand.

"You will not strike me?"

She smiled tiredly, appreciative of his good spirits, and attempted to return the jovial attitude. "Only if I catch your hands wanderin', scruffy."

His arm went over hers, other hand taking hers and folding it on top of his bracer so their arms were locked together. His skin felt like fire covering her hand, and she leaned some of her weight on his arm for balance.

Walking came easier, and after a couple of steps where she didn't sway precariously, he released her hand so it was only their linked arms that made contact. She was desperate to forget her moment of regrettable vulnerability, thoughts swimming for a topic of conversation; one innocuous and distracting.

"Is what Sihtric mentioned before true?" she decided to ask. "You recently cut off all your hair? It used to be long?"

"You don't like my scruffy appearance?" he teased.

"What I'd like is to know why."

Finan glanced away then shrugged. "Grew tired of tying it back before every fight."

"You fight a lot here?"

"Not in Coccham."

"Do you avoid answering any question put to you on purpose, or is that just your natural charm shinin' through?"

"I see no purpose to speakin' of things that are dead and past."

"Then my very existence must be a burden to you." Her elbow pulled down, about to untangle from him and relieve the physical burden, but he brought his arm to his side. It pinned hers, and her feet instinctually meandered closer so her arm wasn't at an odd angle.

She looked over, about to berate him, but a group of people caught her eye; the small group of servants that would have been dismissed earlier in the night if not for the mess the feasting created. Their stares lingered on the two. If Finan noticed the servants, he did not acknowledge them.

Disappointment boiled at the base of her skull, and her blood ran hot. It was the same everywhere; she was older and un-married, therefore she whored herself to men in the towns they traveled around to. She may have been able to get away with being pious and chaste like a nun, except one conversation or dance with her proved she was a harlot in their eyes. The singer must be, if not pious. Those were the only choices. Nevermind the fact she hadn't stirred any trouble before performing in the hall. Nevermind that Uhtred's men had complimented her manner the entire week prior. Nevermind that it was unsafe for a woman to walk alone at night and any decent Christian gentleman might offer the same help.

No. It was all ignored in favor of whatever narrative fit their fancy best. She sang and danced as she pleased, and knew pagan music, so she must be despicable.

That was why their troupe never lingered in any place after doing a large performance. It was why she knew in the morning the town would be abuzz with rumors of Finan and her. And why she knew the vitrol would only get worse; preparing herself to stay at camp as much as was possible to spare the hardship. Despite his pig-headedness, Finan did not deserve to have his new life in this town tainted by her reputation.

"I do not understand it," he said, an honesty weighing down his tone. "But there has been an abundance of smiles since your group came in to town. Only a fool would ignore the joy you bring with ya. I simply...there are precious few memories of my past that would bring about the happiness you've given the others. It is like you said this mornin'; I see no purpose to be bringin' my old life into my new one. A warrior cannot become distracted if they want to live."

Her fingers grasped the bracer around his forearm tightly, making the leather creak. Understanding of his actions tugged at her chest as they approached the gates, and her voice went soft, looking ahead.

"It suits you, your hair; to be unrestrained...free. I hope with all sincerity you are able to find happiness for yourself."

"All I get is hope?" he smiled.

"I can keep you in my prayers if you wish."

"Will ya keep me in other ways too?"

"Finan!" One of the two guards at the gates greeted. His grin dimmed at the sight of the singer on his arm. "You're not causing trouble, are you?"

"This one had a bit too much ale," he dismissed. "She's got the footin' of a baby deer. I'm takin' her back to her camp with the others."

"With respect, I was talking to the woman."

"No, Elwin," she answered monotonously. "It's as he says."

The guards' gaze dragged from legs to lips. The mustache on his face twitched in the way of a smirk. "Shame."

Then his head turned, calling over the second guard to help lift the wood beam locking the gates. They grunted with the effort of it, but soon enough Elwin was able to pull open one side of the gate enough for the pair to go through. There was a cold emptiness to his stare, and her insides irked.

"So much as think it and I'll shove your balls down your throat."

He sneered. "Best to hurry back inside, Finan. She's got the attitude of a whore, but the mouth of a heathen. It's the Devil's influence."

The Irishman said nothing to the unwanted advice, and the torches sitting beside the two watchmen on the outside of the gates cast long shadows, obscuring his expression as they passed through. The outside guards were more pleasant, smiling and waving at the woman.

"Hey, Céilí, got any songs to entertain two poor souls on watch duty tonight?"

"Sadly not tonight," she answered.

"You'll still keep your word about that story, right? We're dying to know if he gets eaten."

"Tomorrow," she assured. "I need rest tonight or I'll lose my voice."

"All right."

"We'll hold you to that," the second one added.

"Rest well, Céilí."

The woman dipped her head to acknowledge the goodbye and continued on her retreat to camp. The path was less defined, but the distant glow of light shone through the tree trunks ahead and so the pair followed that. The ground was uneven in a way that had her stumbling again, and she had to lean more on Finan to keep upright. It probably didn't help that she had her head tilted back to look at the sky. The stars had always been a reprieve for the woman, however, and she found herself staring without realizing.

"If he gets eaten?" The question came with amusement.

"A poem," she answered. "A ship crashes in a storm while carrying warriors back from war and strands them on an island with monsters. Most get defeated or eaten, but the leader is still alive where I left off, and he's trying to get home to his wife."

"Does he?"

"Perhaps you should attend tomorrow and find out."

"Without hearing the first part?"

"I'll not spoil an epic tale to satisfy your meager curiosity." She changed her focus and smiled at the warrior. "I meant to ask, how is your arm healing?"

"Concerned for my health, little lamb?" The look he received urged him to continue. "It's nothin' more than a scratch. Might not even scar."

"Is it true you let the horses out of the stables and scared them so they would trample the raiders?"

"It is true the horses were frightened and escaped the stables in time to catch the raiders by surprise."

Her smile only grew. "Are you sayin' you won on accident?"

"What I'm sayin'," he emphasized. "Is that you should always double-check the latches on the stalls of the great big beasts before swingin' a torch around."

Her laughter chimed in the darkness, full and breathless.

"I've never been very good with animals," he admitted, the apples of his cheeks raising. "I can ride, but not much else."

"Of all the damned things!" the woman hollered, gasping between fits. "You really are an idiot!"

"I think Uhtred is beginning to believe I'm afraid of the bastards because I always manage to convince Sihtric to take care of the horses at camp while I hunt."

Their steps slowed then stopped as she caught her breath. Raucous laughter gradiated to giggles, then smiles. They were just past the edge of the wood. Her groups' campfire wasn't far, but it was enough distance that they could still have privacy while speaking.

The woman leaned back on the thin trunk of a tree, but Finan had yet to release her arm, and so he stood beside her. Beams of moonlight cast her skin in silver, and gleamed in his dark eyes.

"I don't know why I'm tellin' you this," he said, and his voice filled the space around them.

Her awareness shrunk, and it reignited the heat of his skin on hers. God he was so close. Her fingernails dug crescents into leather. The wind stirred the leaves above them.

"I suppose I just wish to hear that laugh of yours more."

Her gaze tried to break away, but he dipped his head to keep it and raised her eyes back up.

"I think you have one of the loveliest laughs I've ever heard. And the more I speak with you, the lovelier you get."

The heat coiled up the singer's arm, shoulder and neck to rest at her cheeks, but she could not will herself away. Could not pull away from the smoke and the burning. That unreadable heaviness had returned, settling on her chest, constricting it.

Finan smirked. "You're as hard as any shield wall to break when I joke about beddin' you, but simple flattery has you lookin' like you're afflicted with fever?"

"I'm...unaccustomed to flattery for the sake of honesty."

"Am I making you uncomfortable?"

"God no," she breathed, chuckling. "Though there are plenty of other things I can think of that you make me."

His next smile was soft, voice quiet. "Is this how it's like being flattered? Because I feel a right idiot."

Her lips curled up half-heartedly. "If I were to use flattering words with you, I fear I would be unable to stop."

"Then don't. Stop, I mean."

"And feed your ego?" she scoffed.

His cheeks were flushing a fetching red, and his gaze drifted to her mouth, then her chin. Then her cheek. He leaned closer, lips parting. His breathing was measured, controlled. Desire and panic brewed an intoxicating mixture inside the woman, heart pounding in her ears. She could make out the lines on his forehead, and the smoothness of scarred skin where flesh had been rended long ago. And something in his irises became brittle.

The smallest change, but his advance halted. Finan blinked. She felt him breathe out his nose slowly, air brushing her cheek, as his lips pressed together and his adams apple bobbed.

"You should...get some rest."

She nodded, movements sluggish. One moment, every minuscule change crossed her vision. The next, her arm was gone from his side and he held her hand to his lips. Her fingers were roughened by things past, and folded around his that had known their own hardship and battle; held between them.

The contact felt longer than it was, his beard scratching the back of her hand. Her muscles refused to listen, and when he retreated, her arm fell limp at her side, watching him walk away toward town in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uan beag - "little lamb"


	7. Something Met

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: implied sexual assault. It is not explicit in any way, but I'm putting a warning regardless.

Three nights in camp plus three more. The singer avoided the alehouse, but enjoyed the company of Finan or Sihtric while accompanying them on their patrolling rounds in the day. Errands often took them around town in the afternoon, otherwise they would train their fighting skills with the other guards. The Lord Uhtred commissioned more weapons from a forge in the heart of Wessex to give the town better defenses, and it wouldn't be long before they arrived and the entire guard could spar with more than wooden staves. The singer had only watched one of the days due to her presence being an apparent distraction for Finan.

The bandage around his arm was off, and he lamented being wrong about not scarring on their way to the area behind the hall where the training would take place.

She had folded her hands behind her back and smiled. "It is not necessarily a bad thing. Now there will be a new mark, and it will take longer to admire your handsomeness."

"More flattery?" he asked.

"A simple truth."

Unfortunately, simple truths did not continue to earn her stolen smirks and fond glances from behind sheilds just before getting thwacked with a staff. Stares still found her, and the day before their group left saw her standing in the great hall for judgement with varying kinds upon her.

There was Lord Uhtred, sitting in his throne of sorts, elbow on the arm of the chair and his chin on his hand. His stare was one of sharpness and frustration. Then there was Finan and Sihtric who flanked Uhtred; a mixture of anger and pity. There were four more guards behind her, blocking the door and prepared to restrain her, that had their faces soured in barely contained disgust. And finally there were the eyes that had been wide with covetess lust earlier, and overflowed with vitrol in the hall.

It was Elwin. He favored one leg heavily, as his other was still seeping blood down his thigh from the newly made puncture there. A healer was sent for, but the raucous he caused by yelling got the pair thrown in front of the Lord before anything else could happen. The fingers on her right hand were sticky with blood, and one of the guards by the door had her dagger.

Elwin's brows were furrowed low, fists clenched at his sides and mouth pressed tightly together, shaking from pain and rage. His pursed lips irritated the woman. She wished she could snatch them from his face. It would leave him a horrifyingly disfigured abomination, and no one would dare look upon his cursed visage.

"It's as it appears, Lord," Elwin said. "I thought to take part in the services this woman offers, but instead when I went to go pay her she took a knife from under her skirts and stabbed my leg. Barely missed anything important. She robbed me of my coin just as she robbed you of a warrior for weeks to come, and I demand justice."

"Should you not cover that wound?" the singer gritted.

His glare only hardened. "Does the sight of blood upset your sensibilities?"

"I was referring to the gash in your face. You always re-open it. Perhaps you should allow it to heal."

"You will both stop," Uhtred interrupted, the authority in his voice silencing the hall. His hand fell from his face into his lap as his gaze turned to the woman. "Are there any witnesses to this thievery?"

She straightened her posture, relying on the simple truth. "No, because there was none."

"She is a lying heathen, Lord," Elwin spat. "She tells nonsense tales daily for silver. You cannot trust a single word from her blasphemous tongue."

"You have had your turn to speak," Uhtred scolded. The man shrinked back. "I will hear both sides before casting blame. Now," he gestured to the singer. "Before he loses all his blood."

That was when one of the doors opened to let in a healer; an old nun of a woman carrying a basket of linens and small jars. She was harried forward and silently urged Elwin to sit down and began her work. His face was paling, gritting his teeth as the hole in his breeches was torn wider to allow the healer to see his leg better. A bowl of water was brought from somewhere, and the nun dipped one of the rags in it before going to clean the wound.

"I was leaving Coccham for the night," the singer answered. "And on my way back to my camp when Elwin came to me. He is often guarding the gates at night, and must have left his station to follow. I warned him to stop and not touch me, and when he did not listen, I protected myself by making good on my warning."

Uhtred's eyes cut to Elwin. "Is this true? You tried to force yourself on this woman?"

"She is lying with every breath!" he protested. "She is a whore."

"Was there agreement Céilí?"

Her voice went cold, gaze fixed ahead at the Lord. "There was not."

He held her conviction in his eyes for a few long moments, weighing the options. Then Finan leaned in close and spoke quietly in his ear. She glanced around. The nun was applying a bandage to Elwin's leg. The guards looked at the singer like their thoughts alone could send her to Hell. She was accusing one of their comrades afterall. It felt personal, insulting the honor of a friend.

There was a sort of treacherous inevitability that gnawed at her. It made her heartbeat rush. Crushing iron and stone and endless rope invaded her thoughts. It was all rottingly familiar. Then again, if Uhtred doled justice like a Dane, perhaps she could at least get a quick end.

The hearth directly behind her caused a chill on her front, and it slithered down her shoulders to stiffen her fingers. She clutched her hands together, tensing against the tremors that wanted to betray her outwardly calm. Red smeared on her skin at the action.

"Sihtric," the Lord announced, bringing her attention back to him. "Search her."

Finan's eyes widened a fraction.

"If Elwin is telling the truth, then we will find his silver."

The Dane boy came forward, and gingerly took one of her arms. She understood Sihtric was a friend, but still had to make a conscious effort not to tense. He turned her, looking for anywhere she might have something stored. After rotating to see every side of her Sihtric let go of her arm and looked back at Uhtred.

"Not a single pouch or coin purse. She has nothing but the clothes you see Lord."

"Then search where I cannot see. Her dagger was concealed as well."

He hesitated. "Lord, I do not-"

"Do as I say or I will have one of the men who is still a stranger to her take their turn."

His head bowed, and he offered an apologetic look to the singer.

Finan's hand wrung around the grip of his sword, knuckles white. His mouth was stuck in a grim line, and that fragile quality returned to his eyes as they looked at nothing. The light shuttered, shaping the sorrow within the color. It reminded her of a miserable boy she once saw back home; one surrounded by rules and duty, stifled and forced to bend to the cold hearts around him.

She had been sent to represent her family and deliver a wedding gift; a gesture of good faith and prosperity on the prince and his new bride, and an opportunity to pledge oaths to the future rulers of the land. Seven of their healthiest lambs were given to the royal family to clothe and feed them. She had been barely a woman then, with the fearless ambition naivety wrought.

The couple had stood beside the throne in a great stone castle and accepted each gift and word in turn. There was no love between them, and it was more than the strangeness of a new bride. The despair she saw in the prince's eyes that day had always brought on a sadness and longing of her own. The prince was imprisoned in his own way, sacrificing freedom and happiness for duty. His words and actions were detached, automatic; anguish devouring all the life from his features.

Then the memory tripped and doubled over itself as Finan's visage shifted. Anger tightened the muscles around his face, and he bit out a concise,

"Sihtric."

The Dane boy halted at the warning, and the woman's heart raced as the air in the hall turned cold as if the fire was revolted at the prospect of injustice.

"Lord," he pleaded, choking the leather grip of his sword. "I know what the people say, but she is an honorable woman. A good woman, and she deserves respect just as-"

"She is a worthless harlot!" Elwin interrupted.

"Marbhadh Fáisg ort!" he cursed back, the Gaelic rumbling past his lips like thunder; a great force of nature. And something in the woman's face cracked.

Words continued to trade, but they were all sunken in her ears. Memories cleared like moss flowing down a creek and babbled over all else. It widened and rushed so fiercely she was certain she could see a waterfall ahead.

Voices yelled, and she was half aware of Elwin being forced out of the hall as Uhtred wore a knowing, victorious smirk.

As a young woman, she thought she had witnessed what taking the smoother course did to one's spirit, and charted her own fate through rapids and bends. She thought her path unique. But he had forged the same rivers, and proven that narrow channels, once met, could entwine and grow into one heartstopping plummet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marbhadh Fáisg ort. - "The squeeze band of Death on you." An old Irish Gaelic curse. To quote the website I got this translation from, "When a person dies the lower jaw drops and the mouth will not remain shut. A band has then to be put under the jaw and tied around the head tightly. This band is the Marbhadh Fáisg."


	8. Something Honest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a small note; I have not read the books and therefore have no idea how detailed Finan's backstory is described so this may not be accurate to that (sorry, I did try to find more information and hope it doesn't detract from your enjoyment. Or maybe I'm the only one who's such a stickler for canon). Much of this is inferred or interpretted from what's on the wiki page for his character. Also I've decided to put a few of the Gaelic translations here as they are used near the top of the chapter so it'll be easier to access for understanding. The last of the Gaelic is near the end of the chapter so it's easier to access those translations in the end notes.
> 
> Dia ár sábháil. - "God save us." Basically a more polite 'what the fuck' or 'you gotta be fucking kidding me.'
> 
> Bhí tú dó. - "You were him."

"You are free to go, Céilí."

The clemency spun past her ears. Her thoughts were still mired by the realization of her ignorance. And she looked at Finan. He had shorn off his long hair and grew a beard to obscure the bottom part of his features, true, but back then he had also had less weather on his face. Seasons had come, carrying bits of youth away with them; honing other qualities in their place. He was sharp and willful, and free.

The Lord Uhtred was perplexed at the woman's lack of response to his judgement. He leaned forward in his chair, attempting to snag her attention.

"Do you not understand?" he questioned.

"Perhaps she is in shock, Lord," said Sihtric. "Your way of things is not usual."

"She was never in any danger from me," Uhtred shrugged. "I knew the moment that cow turd claimed she stole silver that he was guilty ten times over."

"You did?" Finan asked, surprise mixing with annoyance.

"Céilí refused my silver to perform at the feast just last week. Why would she steal any now, and risk the safety of her troupe? It was a foolish lie."

"Then why in God's name did you almost have Sihtric go underneath her skirts?"

At this Uhtred smirked again, looking at Finan out of the corner of his eye. "To prove my point about you and her."

The warrior opened his mouth, anger tensing his muscles, but it drained away just as quickly when he heard her speak. A soft but heartfelt,

"Dia ár sábháil..."

The mirth left Uhtred's features, looking to Finan expectantly.

"Bhí tú dó," the woman breathed. Saying it made it more real. And something made it's way to Finan.

He turned back to her, taking in her awed features. His own eyes were somewhat wide, somewhat fractured.

"What is she saying Finan?" Sihtric questioned.

His lips were awkward forming the words, his mind reeling with questions and fears of his own. "She is...grateful." A pitiful lie.

The slight squint from Uhtred suggested he was dubious, but it seemed trivial when compared to his trust in his friend. "You should walk her to her camp." It was more a command than a suggestion, and Finan cleared his throat as he tore his attention to the task at hand.

"Yes Lord."

Sihtric perked. "Would you like me to join you?"

"No," Uhtred denied before Finan could answer. "You will go make certain the guards posted will not allow Elwin to flee in the night. I wish to see him leave my lands with my own eyes."

"Yes Lord."

"Oh, and Finan..." He waited for the warrior to acknowledge he was listening. "It is probably best you stay the night at the camp with Céilí in case another of the guard decides to try and take justice for themselves. They will not like that I have sided with a stranger over our own."

Finan cast a withering look to Uhtred who chuckled in amusement. The warrior walked to the singer, and when he gestured to the door her thoughts snapped back to the present.

She shook her head clear, and quickly bowed to Uhtred. "Yes, thank you Lord. I will always be grateful for the hospitality and kindness you've showed us here in Coccham. I will be delighted to spread the tales of your adventures across all kingdoms."

"Then the gods continue to smile on me to have such fortunate and talented friends."

She grinned. "I believe this is the longest I've been in continual agreement with a Lord before."

He laughed, and she turned to exit with Finan. The Dane boy went past them, saying his farewell as he broke off to the left. The guards at the gate were quiet, and the woman avoided meeting their eyes.

Once they were at the edge of the woods and safely out of range of any spying eyes or ears the singer's steps halted. She looked down at her bloody hands and quietly informed Finan that,

"I should...wash."

He said nothing, but turned left toward the river. She followed, and they went to the bank. To her right, trunks of trees herded together and created a wall of blackest shadow. The moon could not penetrate their leaves, but casted silver specks across the water and writhing fractions of light on the ground through the clouds. It was enough to see without torches.

The woman kneeled among the long strands of grass, eager to be rid of the ick and vile of the memory with the blood. Finan's voice to her left made her hesitate. It was low, relenting, lack-luster.

"What made you realize?"

She didn't dare see his expression. This wasn't a confessional, but it still felt wrong to look as she spoke. She used the grime on her fingers as her excuse, leaning forward. Her cupped palms went under the flowing water. The chill was welcome even if it stiffened her joints, and she began to scrub.

"It's rare for me to regret tellin' tales," she said. The words were heavier than she was used to with stories. These were hers, and they hefted on her tongue. "But there's a reason I seek out the truth of a tale before spreadin' it now. There was this man back home. A married man. Not long after the wedding, the alehouses were full of rumors about the couple. They talked of their lack of love and the instability of the marriage, and one of the nights I was afforded a glance. I had spoken with the man once, you see, and when I saw how much livelier he was away from his wife I was inclined to believe the rumors. So I spoke them in my travels through the countryside back to my family's land. Eventually, years later I heard he was found guilty of adultery and treason, and was going to serve his exile in slavery."

The woman pulled her hands close, water dripping in her lap, and checked for any missed spots. There was still some muck creased at the edges of her nails. She submerged her hands again.

"I wonder, sometimes, if his fate would have been different had I not fanned those rumors. That maybe they were right to accuse me of moral indecency."

"You've wondered that, have ya?"

The river hugged her wrists. The grass rustled beside her as Finan sat down. His feet were flat, arms resting on bent knees. He plucked a strand of grass from the ground and began winding it around his finger; a mindless thing he could fidget with. There was a few beats of silence.

"Then you'd not care to hear what happened after," he said.

"I don't know," the woman replied softly. "If he wished to unburden, I think I might offer some comfort."

"You, listening to a story without wanting to share it with others? There's a surprise."

"Something has bonded us together. You're the reason I'm even here tonight. You might expect me to care."

He stared at the side of her head and blinked, without a response or clever retort.

She scratched the edges of her nails, digging out the red. "This used to be my only view."

The woman glanced up, gesturing to Finan that she was talking about the sky. His eyes followed to the stars then glided slowly back down.

"I did meet you once," she regaled. "You did not say more to me than you did to half a hundred others pledgin' oaths to you, but I'll always remember the way you looked. You were doing what your family expected; marrying, having kids, always to be waiting for something. It was that day I realized I wanted none of it. A couple weeks of alehouse shenanigans later, I was judged for public moral indecency and told I could toil for God's favor in a workhouse. I did nothin' but pick oakum for years. It was slavery in all but name."

At her recollection of the stony cell her features hardened. It had been an oppressively small space with ten to a room shackled in pairs; made any escape attempt harder when leashed like that. Her left ankle was still scarred from the iron chains.

"They kept us underground, but let us up in the mornin' to get our lengths of rope for the day. Eventually an opportunity came. Some of the warriors were called to hunt down a wanted man fleein' South, and thankfully the ones left weren't as good at fighting as they were takin' advantage of women who were bound. Most of the workers didn't survive the riot. As soon as the shackles were off I ran, dressed as a boy and sang on the street to earn enough money to sail here."

Her washing stopped.

"I've not told anyone what truly happened to me. I was...not myself after that. I had encouraged the riot, after all, and those people died because of it. For a long time, I felt angry and guilty. Once I put some distance between myself and everything...it was a start. I can't forget what happened, but it led me here. I can make that mean something."

The woman wiped her hands dry on her dress. Then she allowed her weight to shift, and she fell backward to sit next to Finan. She folded her legs in front of herself and looked up to the stars past wisps of clouds.

"Éabha."

Finan watched her profile carefully.

"My name," she provided. "It's Éabha."

With everything confessed, her eyes went to observe his reaction. She studied his face one more time. Glaring did not suit him. His face had carved lines for laughing and smiling. Not this blank, harsh look.

Then the color in his irises cracked apart, and his stoic features with it. The weight and familiarity finally dragged without his smile or humor to lighten it, and she was able to see it--him--wholly for the first time.

In his eyes was a wisdom cultivated by deep sadness. It had been nourished and grown fat upon the sorrow surrounding his circumstances, but had not consumed him. And Éabha tried unsuccessfully to quell the wave of tenderness the sight evoked.

"I know you're telling me all this to try and get me to do the same," he said gently. "But you'll not be left to wonder anymore. Although, I can't help but wonder myself at what will happen now that you recognized me."

She understood his fears; that others might take pity or worse if they knew who he used to be. More so for him since his family would not take kindly to knowing he did not die in exile. At best, they would send someone to hunt him down. For all the barbs and jokes he directed at her, Éabha wanted his happiness.

She put a hand on his arm just above his bracer. His tunic kept their skin from making contact, but that she sought him out at all meant a great deal. To them both.

"Ar scáth a chéile, a mhaireann na daoine," she replied sincerely. It was more than an old saying between members of a community in that moment; it was an oath. It was a promise of trust in each other, and protection, and many more unsaid things that he somehow simply _knew_ just from looking in her eyes.

The warrior glanced to the river as he felt his chest tighten, memories playing and sorting out in his mind; trying to find an acceptable current to follow. The water mumbled, and the wind brushed their cheeks. And there was a sliver of peace among it.

"Any trouble was his own makin'," Finan told her. "The man you met. That, you may find some comfort in at least." He picked a fistful of grass and searched for the longest strand as he continued. "I was foolish and sinful, coveting my brother's life. He was the younger of us, Conall, so he had more freedom in choosing how he lived. I was promised to a woman I'd never met at a young age for politics, and I tried to love her. By God I tried. She tried too, but I could tell...even after she gave me sons...I'm not proud of the father I was. Resented the bastards. In the end, I even coveted my brother's wife. We tried to run, but we didn't get far. Do you...do you know what happened to them?"

"I only heard about your trial," she answered. "But they do not look on adultery kindly, and there was talk of Conall marrying the princess to uphold the peace. I'm sorry."

He shook his head, but there was a strained tug that twitched the corner of his mouth down. "You've no reason to be. I should've known they weren't satisfied with shamin' our names with that slander." His voice constricted, and he took a breath to relax it again, tossing the grass to the ground. "I was a lot of things, but I was never unfaithful. Instead my selfishness cost me everything, and two innocent lives were butchered like they were worth less than fucking nothin'."

Finan's hands trembled slightly. His left flattened his beard, covering his mouth. His right was cradled by icy skin. Éabha's fingers had slid across his bracer to cover his. Though cold from the water, she hoped the touch would offer what words could not. She brought her other hand underneath, and enfolded his with a firm squeeze. He returned the gesture, clasping her stiff fingers.

He inhaled sharply through his nose, and his free hand fell away from his face. "I killed my brother's boy," he blurted, words breaking apart like fallen pottery on stone. "My own kin. He cursed me for stealing his mother away from him, and I-there's no excuse. Of all my sins, that is the one I regret most."

Finan took another breath, grip strangling hers. She allowed the minor pain from the pressure, and sapped some of the heat from him. It warmed her, and as he breathed out the pressure ebbed. He took one more calming breath, and it did so again. When he continued, his tone had dropped far away; a distance too far to reach who was sitting beside her.

"An oarsman's seat was my atonement. Every moment was its own Hell. Damp to rot your flesh, salt to burn your face, hunger on an ocean that never stilled to make you weak, the neverending beating of voices calling to row driving you mad. It is not something I'd wish upon the Devil himself."

Éabha used her thumb to trace over scarred knuckles, and he snapped back to himself with a short intake of air. The baleful, bitter quality sloughed off; casted down the river with his gaze.

"I suffered for my betrayal. That debt is paid ten times over. I swore to change if I was ever free again. Become a different man. A better man." Finan's features sombered, voice soft, suffered, searching. "I cannot tell if it's worked yet." Then quickly, he turned, some vindication and light returning to his eyes as they met hers. "Uhtred was on that ship with me a few seasons. His brother, Ragnar, was the one to find and free us, and I was able to make sure those slave havin' bastards would burn in Hell for what they did. After regaining some of our strength, we helped him take Dunholm, and now we are here. Now I am here, finding myself confessing my life to a woman who appears to be a bigger part of it than I realized. I will accept no pity for this, I'll have you know."

"I would never dream of casting pity your way," Éabha replied. "I think you're brave. You have a strong soul to come out of all that, and to offer up your story with such honesty. You are a fighter, but you have not forgotten your heart, and I admire that."

Finan's gaze wandered to their clasped hands. To the grounding, wordless comfort. Then he carefully let go enough to put his fingertips to her palm. They passed along her fingers, prying her hand open flat, and slipped between the gaps; braiding them together. Calm quiet settled on him like it was a hearth in the center of a home. Warm, safe, content.

"Another of your simple truths?" he asked.

She gave a half-hearted smile. "All this does leave me one last thing to wonder, however," she said, and he raised his eyes to her face. "It was the thought that had me lookin' like a fool in the hall. Because I thought I had changed my fate when I turned away from the life of a farmer, but...here I am, and here you are, and I wonder..." The words evaporated before they could find their way out of her throat. She tried again. "Had fate truly been steering me this whole time, and not my own will?"

"I don't know about all of that," he answered. "But I would not change it."

Her smile spread and softened with her voice. "No," she agreed. "I would not either."

Finan quirked an eyebrow, fingers flexing in the tangle of their hands, tightening the knot. "Does this mean you'll stay a bit longer?"

That sunk her smile, and she turned to the river. "I cannot abandon my troupe. I'm their voice. They might get by for a time with Edda, but her moods are...fluctuating. People don't trust Wilfred, and Avon is meek as a mouse. They rely on me."

"What of your something?" Finan questioned.

"My something?"

"That you talked about searching for. If you never stop to look," he said. "How will you know when you've found it?"

"I'll feel it," she defended, slightly stunned. Éabha drew her hands back to her lap. "And somethin' is welcome to stay."

Finan's gaze lingered on the retreat of warmth; the still, empty space in his palm. "But you're not willin' to stay for _it_."

Two short heartbeats of silence were interrupted by a quick inhale and a shrug. Finan plastered on a rueful grin, and she could feel that their discussions of things past had ended.

"To be honest, I'm still convinced any woman that'd settle down with me is doomed for trouble, so it's probably best ya stick to your own adventures. Come on." In a few moments, he was standing, and the singer followed. Finan gestured toward her camp. "You need your rest for travelin'. I'll keep watch."

There was an oddness to her returning smile; off-kilter in a way that reflected the fogged feelings between the two people. "And I can trust you won't frighten the horses while no one's looking?"

His laugh was short and void of its typical exuberance. "If I won't be allowed near the horses, I suppose you mean for me to keep guard inside your tent. I'm sure the view is lovely, but that does make keepin' an eye out for danger harder."

"By the fire," she chided. "I meant for you to stay by the fire."

"That was the plan."

"Right. Well..." Éabha sighed, giving in to weariness as her features collapsed. "I'm sorry."

The apology took on more weight with their conversation fresh in their minds, and Finan dipped his head to acknowledge the words before heading toward her camp.

The next morning, after the band of travelers had packed their payment of rations on horseback and mounted to take their leave, their leader was struck with a strange despondency. Uhtred came out to wish her safety and the offer of a friendly welcome among his table should they find their troupe returning. Sihtric had helped her saddle her horse and given his own bittersweet farewell. Even the guards who had glared at her the night previous gave quiet apologies along with the dagger that had been confiscated.

It should have been a grand thing. She had obtained the truth about Uhtred and thus had new songs to sing. The town, while not fond of the amount of time she spent in men's company, were generally friendly toward them and would be open to them performing again.

They were setting off to continue following the next bend in the river, the next road, the next tide; ready to be swept off on their next adventure. But the usual excitement for something new was absent, and that absence gnawed at the pit of her stomach. It made each step away from Coccham an uneasy one, and Éabha found herself wondering again. Wondering how true Finan's words to her were, and if perhaps trouble had been exactly the something she was missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Éabha - (literally pronounced "ay-vah") "life" or "beauty". My own fun little way of putting too much meaning into character names cause why not.
> 
> Ar scáth a chéile, a mhaireann na daoine - "Under the shelter of each other, people survive." An old Irish proverb.


	9. Something

A fine layer of snow masked the mud underneath as Éabha's horse meandered down the path alongside an empty field. It would all melt soon, but for the coming weeks it would continue to be slower to travel because of it. The ground was soft, and her mount was tired from the struggle it put on its legs.

At the sight of Coccham's walls her mare lifted its head and moved a bit faster, ready for the rest. Unlike last time the singer came, she proceeded to ride past the gates in to the town proper. Most things were unlike her first visit to Coccham, to be certain. The most obvious was pointed out by the Dane boy who was walking to her with a big grin plastered on his face and a shaggy fur of a cloak sitting on his shoulders; hiding his body from the cold.

"And so our Irish songbird has finally returned to us," he called as she urged her horse to stop. The woman dismounted, boots creating craters in the mud, and he glanced over her shoulder with growing confusion. "And you traveled here alone?"

Instead of answering she smiled and outstretched the hand not still gripping the reigns. Sihtric instinctively clapped his hand to her forearm, fingers recently warmed by a fire radiating heat through her dress sleeve. He must have been alerted of her approach and come out to meet her.

"I cannot think of a much more fair greeting than that of a friendly face," she said. "I have missed you."

Her eyes widened as he tugged, pulling her close. His cloak opened with his other arm, enveloping her in a warm embrace. Her own cloak she had weaved from scraps of dyed wool, but weeks of outdoor travel meant it did little to protect her at that point, and the sudden temperature change had chills cascading down her skin. After the initial surprise wore off, however, the woman released his forearm to hold him back, fur threatening to choke her if she breathed in too quickly.

"Your absence has been greatly felt," Sihtric replied. "I have so many new things to share with you."

The singer pulled away enough to see his face. "And I am eager to hear them." Her hand slipped from his back to his arm, then away. She made a show of looking over his person. "You look in better health and spirits. Winter was not too harsh here?"

At that, his smile shifted to something more bashful, but there was pride to his voice when he answered, "I have a woman now. Or, I am trying."

The singer's face lit up. "Congratulations, Sihtric. What is her name?"

"Ælswin."

"Well if she's half as kind as you, your children will be saints."

"It is good to hear your approval," he sighed, relieved. "The other men do not think much of her. She is a whore in Winchester, but I can see the truth in her affections." Sihtric scratched the nape of his neck. "I do not know much about the Saxon way of courtship, however."

"Well, as a lady myself," she exaggerated with a flourish of her hand. "I may be able to help teach you a thing or two about wooing a woman."

"I would like that very much. Come, this one may stay in the stables. There are other faces which will be eager to greet you in the hall."

Sihtric took the reigns from her, and began leading her horse along the inside of the walls to the right. She fell into step beside him as they made their way to the awning nearby that covered where they housed their mounts. It wasn't a great stable, but it kept the horses sheltered.

"The abbess arrived just before the first snow," the Dane boy told her. "So daily prayers keep the town quiet at odd times."

The woman glanced about, realizing he was explaining the lack of people around.

"Uhtred granted lumber and supplies to the men who followed him here. We have built homes, and the people have grown used to our presence." He chuckled low in his throat. "Do not let Finan know I told you this, but he was like a child with a hammer."

"Is that so?"

"He is a great warrior, but far from a carpenter. You would swear he has never built in his life."

It was sensible to assume as much; such nobility would not have constructed their own homes or furniture. The thought of him sat stupefied in front of a lump of wood created a fond smile on her face. "I should have liked to see that."

"Once we helped it was faster," he shrugged. "And we did not mind. The cold was setting in, so we all had a hand in each of the buildings."

"Finan less than yours, I imagine."

"Yes," Sihtric agreed with a laugh. "He was given the task of building tables. He did try other things, but this is not his gift." Her horse's reigns were tied to a post, and Sihtric automatically moved to remove the saddle, handing her the bag of her things and an instrument case then working at the buckles to unburden the animal. "The Danes have not moved South, on their word. A few number of rogues tried to raid nearby in the coldest months."

"I bet they learned not to do that rather quickly," she quipped.

"You cannot learn when you are dead. But if any others had ideas of following, they have changed their minds."

"The people here must feel very safe with you around."

Sihtric smiled. "I have missed the kind words of women." He hoisted the saddle off with a small huff and carried it the few steps to where other saddles straddled a log. The mare shook her head and leaned down to drink out of the trough. The rest of its care would be tended to when the stable workers returned from prayer.

The singer took the blanket from the horse and folded it as she spoke, leaving her mount bare. "You have not been able to see your sweetheart for some time, then?"

"Only when Uhtred visits Winchester. His sister is there."

"I heard."

"Is that where you went after leaving here?"

The woman scoffed and draped the thick wool over her saddle. "I am not allowed in either alehouse in Winchester after last time. No, I spent most of my winter at Dunholm to avoid the chill."

The pair began making their way to the hall across the path, boots slugging through the cold mud, and the Dane boy carried a puzzled, dubious expression. "You went North to avoid the chill?"

"It was the walls which blocked the chill, not the land. Ragnar was a gracious host, particularly after hearing my new song of his victory. You mentioned he was a good fighter, but he is also very fond of games and merriment. It was one of the most sound seasons of my years. So sound, in fact, that two of my troupe decided to remain. Ragnar seemed pleased to have Wilfred and Avon join his people, and to share news of Danelaw country. Perhaps Uhtred can make use of it."

"And the others?" Sihtric questioned, pushing the door to the hall open. She stepped through, welcoming the rush of heat, and he shut it behind her.

"It was decided among us that our paths have changed. Edda and the big guy left to find a parcel of land they might build on. I hadn't even noticed they'd been saving their silver, but I hope to see them happily settled somewhere in the future."

"What of your path?" he asked as he un-clipped his cloak. Sihtric swung the heavy material off and draped it over a nearby banister. Then he took the sack of her belongings and the case from her, setting them beside the staircase.

The woman wrung her hands together, attempting to push life back into her fingers. Her shoulders shivered. She had not noticed how cold she had been either, it seemed. The journey was long, and her tone turned tender at the thoughts that had occupied her mind along the way.

"I...left something here. I suppose I was hoping it was not lost."

"Well, what was it?" a new voice cut in.

The singer turned and realized Uhtred was sitting at the head of the table by the fire, with Finan leaning against a nearby wood beam. In front of the Lord were three small stacks of parchment. She noted his ink-stained fingertips as he set his quill in an inkwell, and the dark shadows under his eyes, and he stretched his back. The action showed off the Thor's hammer hanging over his tunic.

"After so long there is little chance, but we would be happy to search for whatever it is that brought you so far in this weather."

Her gaze flickered to Finan. His eyes were already there, looking at her; ankles crossed as his shoulder pressed to the wooden column, fingers flipping a rolled missive over and over idly. His enigmatic expression only served to increase the tempo of her heart, nerves bending, brittle. She felt as if any wrong step could shatter them like ice covering a lake.

"It, uh, was more a metaphorical something, Lord," she responded peaceably. "With your permission, I would like to steal your Irishman away from his duties for a bit. I...owe him an apology."

Uhtred quirked an eyebrow, but it quickly morphed to a pained expression as a shrill scream swept around the room from upstairs. "Please accept my apologies first," he told her, standing with a groan from the chair. "My wife only recently gave birth and he has yet to find the normal sleeping hours."

"Congratulations, Lord."

He gave a tired smile. "You are welcome to stay, of course. I must go see to Gisela and the boy." Uhtred pointed to his guard then gestured to the door as he walked away. "Finan, go make peace with your woman. We will finish these replies tomorrow." He took a few steps up the stairs, then as if almost forgotten, he called back, "and invite her to supper!"

Finan kicked off the wood and tossed the rolled parchment haphazardly on the table. "You heard the Lord. Follow me, little lamb." He snatched up a crumpled cloak that had previously been hidden in the seat of a chair, and secured it over his shoulders. It was in a sorry state, with a long seam where it had been poorly mended on the back.

Sihtric caught her attention as Finan strode to the main door. "Stories and ale later."

The woman chuckled. "I promise." When she left, he was still smiling.

Finan was ahead of her, and she quickened her pace to stay beside him after shutting the hall's door. He was leading her to the side of town further from the main gates. The snap back into the cold intensified her body's trembling, and she clutched the edges of her wool cloak to try and block the wind, pulling it tight around herself.

The walk was silent. The path curved a few times, and they came upon the gate lesser used. It was smaller; only meant for faster travel to the fields and gardens. A few of the buildings were new, and they passed them to go outside the walls. Three more identical buildings were there. The thatching on the roofs was fresh, and the hinges had yet to creak with over-use as he scooped up an armful of split firewood from a pile by the entrance and went inside the one closest to the walls of Coccham.

Once the door hinged closed, she glanced around. The house was a small rectangle with one wall that came out the left side partially to create some semblance of separation between the table to her immediate left and the area where he slept; the back left corner where she knew a bed would be. It was a common enough setup. The rooms weren't totally closed off, but it gave a modicum of privacy to those with families. To her right, a few bundles of herbs hung to dry over a long table cluttered with wood shavings, an iron pot, and half a loaf of bread. One of the legs was slightly raised off the floor, a hair shorter than the others.

On the left side before the wall were two chairs at a small round table. A thick candle burned in the center with a dagger and whetstone laying beside it. And in the middle of the house was a round stone firepit. Finan had already set the stack of wood beside it and was adding two more logs inside.  
Whatever dimming fire had been inside rushed to grab at the new tinder, and the woman went closer to imbibe some of its heat as it grew and spread across the space.

"I guess this is yours," she said, breaking through the silence. "Sihtric mentioned building them just before snowfall. It seems like good shelter."

Finan passed her, going to a wooden chest she hadn't noticed sitting right beside the entrance. The sides were too long, lid not able to shut all the way, and a bent nail was smashed into the joint at the top, forced flat so it didn't snag anything. He opened it long enough to pull out a large hide. The fur was brown and white, and when he grabbed two ends she recognized the animal it came from as a wolf.

Then he walked up to her, and pulled it around her shoulders. The weight was more than she expected, and she clutched it to hold it in place. The instant relief subsided her shivering, and her hands came together in front of her chest to keep it close.

"It is my home," Finan declared. "For now."

His own hands slipped through fur until they surrounded hers. His feet shuffled nearer, and suddenly it was much harder to breathe. Her eyes found his, and she prayed silently the rest of him wasn't lost to her either.

The edges of his mouth lifted, one more than the other, in a smile he’d doubtless been told was charming. And his voice came lower, locked somewhere between teasing and true. "What you've done is nothin' short of deadly, distracting a warrior from fighting. And you come back after all these months expecting a simple apology will make me forgive everything? Your way of torture is cruel and endless, Éabha."

She felt that fragile layer inside her crack. Her heart constricted in its ribbed prison. Guilt and shame and yearning tangling with the affection until it kneaded into a knot at the bottom of her throat. "You...called me by my name."

"Of course I did. It is a secret entrusted only to my lips. Why should I not use it?"

"I'm so sorry," she spilled. "For everything. It was never my intention to hurt you, but I did, and it was selfish of me. I realized I was acting exactly as I swore to myself I'd never do by forsaking happiness for responsibility. You make me question everythin' I thought I wanted, and I was scared of stopping my travel and risking my freedom, but-"

"Hush," Finan cooed, eyes closing briefly in a way that painted pain in the lines of his face. "Lord knows I've thought about what to say if you ever came back until my head hurt. You deserve an apology as well. I'm sorry for treating you like I don't care. Just...all of this emotional talk is hard and uncomfortable for me, so let me get it out before I lose my nerve." His fingers tightened around her hands. "I did not expect to find someone who..." The words trailed. He started again. "Meeting you was one of the most important things to ever happen to me. Even if I don't remember the first time we crossed, I believe our paths are bound, as we are bound. I have lied awake at night aching for you, worrying about you, prayin' for you. But I want to build a life here as one of Uhtred's men. I'm tired of bein' afraid of what might be because of that curse, and I'm sick to death of losing you every time I wake up. I want you to stay. I'm...asking you to stay."

Éabha's heart beat a ragged tempo, and she gathered some of the words that had been rolling over in her mind throughout the season to her tongue. "I don't know if settling in one place will be any of the things you might think, or I think, but that isn't what made me uncertain I suppose. My question was, is this worth it if I'm wrong? Turning into what I shunned back home, that is. But, I met this man, and he told me once that you cannot have adventure without trouble." She could not keep the smile from her face as she said this. "And there is no end to the amount of trouble he offers livin' by his side. So I think, who is to say that something cannot come from living this life? Why must great adventures come from perilous journeys across the world or on battlefields? Why can they not be created in little homes, with a garden and a warm bed, laying beside someone you love?"

An eager posture eliminated much of the space between them; his frame rigid with tension etched into every line. Yet with all the look of someone ready to go in any direction, he sounded apprehensive.

"And...did you come to any meaningful conclusions about that?"

"Yes."

"Please, Éabha..." His features crumpled, as if speaking the words pained him; glancing down to gather himself. "Speak plainly. I know it won't be easy. I know I am not the man you deserve. That this is not the life you wished for-"

"Hush," she repeated back to him. "Peace. You're wasting your breath. I am here, Finan. That's all you need to know."

A glimmer in his eyes. "And you're certain this is what you want?"

Before responding out loud, her wrists turned, hands taking his gently. Without her grip the pelt fell to the floor, but the cold did not invade her senses as before. Their hands lowered, then she pressed his palms into her sides, guiding him to hold. The touch riled something like water from a spring; flowing up to the surface to create keen breaths and earnest, heavy gazes.

Two bodies drifted nearer, hesitant chest to yearning heart, cloaks acting as a shroud to isolate them from all else. Finan's hands slid over fabric to her back, arms joining to fit in the form of her curves like they were made to cradle her close. She was soft, and there, and he felt the previously festering catches in his heart cauterize. The salt-rotted spots, the stinging valleys, and the pierced pits from previous mistreatment filled until it burned. They were not healed, but balmed to allow for it, and it overwhelmed him.

Chilled skin brushed his jaw, her fingers uncurling back behind his ear. She was so near he could pick out the flecks of amber among the green in her irises. Then her voice came as ferociously kind as her honesty, leaving no room for doubt.

"I want you in any way you are willing to give. In every way."

Everything rushed. Finan stared at the current of water--whether they or fate had created it--bend into coalescing rapids and sighed, "then have me. In every way."

He waited, and Éabha plunged into the water.

The press of her mouth on his was firm, and when his lips parted it ebbed, matching the crest of a supple wave. She was willing to drown, but he kept her clear. His kisses were long, lingering, even. It was a passion that permeated; the memory seared into her skin with his steady heat.

Whatever embers that had settled in her gut whenever he played with her were ignited now, setting her ablaze; senses a mixture of pounding hearts, firm embraces, and raised chills all over her body. It was like lightning, being touched. Her life had not been one often visited by tender affection; every sensation doubled.

One of her hands felt through the softness of his short hair and stayed on the back of his head. The other moved from his arm to his waist and further; fingers grasping through his tunic. More than expected, raised lines could be felt through the fabric, patterning his back.

Finan pulled away with a somber expression he tried to cut with a smirk. "I would...prefer it if you didn't linger on that...the rest of me is much more handsome." The scars from his time in chains.

Éabha offered a half smile she hoped conveyed her care for him; bloody, broken memories and all. "More things to admire about you."

Thoughts fluttered by in his gaze. Her chest tightened, face flamed, and brought his mouth back to hers. It was easier for her to kiss him; let his lips connect with hers as a wave reaches for a bank then tarries, rather than suffer his tender scrutiny.

A noise slightly more agitated than a hum rose from Finan's throat and vibrated against her lips. His embrace tightened, palms pulling; pressed between his body and hold like flowers between pages. Éabha broke from his mouth, the air stuttering on its way to her lungs. Her fingers grappled to him, clinging to steady or to direct the surge of desire within, she didn't care to discern. She was on the precipice of something fantastic, bliss clouding her eyes.

A small, suggestive smile shaded the bottom half of his face. "If I ever say a sight is lovelier may God strike me down as a fucking liar."

Éabha laughed breathlessly and rested her forehead to his. "I should be worried for when you share my bed then."

"My heart will stop before God can get to me."

"Such a honeyed tongue, sharpened by wit. You could charm a nun out of her oaths."

Fingers drifted to her hip.

"It is no wonder how I came to desire such a wicked man."

"And I an angel in disguise."

The moment hung in the air for a while, then Finan drew back. "I will need to ask Uhtred."

She tried to glean what she could from his expression, and a slight furrow to his brow revealed the most. "You appear concerned about that."

"He might question it." At this, he stepped away from her completely and gestured around. "What you see is all. I have nothing to offer."

"Offer?"

"To be marryin' you."

Her eyes widened. "I must have missed the part where you asked."

"Did I not ask you to stay?"

"That is not the same," she scoffed.

Finan grinned and took up one of her hands. "I want you here, with me, and despite what any priest might tell ya I am devout, in my own way, and I would have you as my wife first."

To leave all she'd known to venture toward all she wanted to know. Rational thoughts absconded from her mind. For Éabha to pretend she required to rationalize this at all was folly. It would not be the first time she chose a path more opaque. She knew the answer, even without the question. And when her hand squeezed his tighter, he did too.

"Well, then..." Éabha glanced around, and picked up the wolf pelt. "This will sell for good coin."

His mouth twisted. "It is less than you deserve."

"It does not matter to me, Finan. I do not have more than what you saw me carry into Coccham, and I make no claim to wish for more. If Uhtred questions it, you may tell him I have insisted on a traditional Irish exchange." The woman set the pelt aside. Then she stood in front of him, fingers going to undo the frayed tie on his cloak. She set the glorified rags to the ground and reached for the brass buckle on her own cloak. The wool was hoisted off her shoulders and onto Finan's. The strap secured, she draped the thick weave over him and admired his appearance. "There. A shroud. My promise to keep you under my care. And with the silver from the pelt I will weave a new one as your promise to keep me under your protection."

"But that is not a tradition."

"Uhtred does not know that," she shrugged.

Finan felt the edge of the garment, warm wool scratching between fingers, and chuckled. "Then this is the promise that I will most cherish keepin'."

Éabha placed a palm to his cheek. He dropped the cloak to hold it there, hand covering hers. Then he bent forward, putting their foreheads together as his eyes fell closed; scarred skin to tender brow. Steeped in adored closeness and care. There was peace. Long-lasting, conserved and consecrated peace. Earlier burdens did not feel as such with their fates now meshed wholly together; further straying fruitless. And they understood.

Water would always flow, always change, but fighting every current wasn't inherently superior to becoming familiar with the banks and shores. And perhaps something isn't static. It isn't waiting to be found, or even singular, but an endless series of things to be explored and cherished. Something was limitless; unending. Something freed them together. Something was there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed the story, and spending more time with these characters. If I ever get my spark of motivation back maybe I'll write out the epilogue I have daydreamed in my head for this. Until then, again, thank you for all the love and support y'all showed throughout and I hope you're able to explore and cherish your something's♡.


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